Shorts
by TMBlue
Summary: Short Ron/Hermione one-shots written in single sittings and previously posted directly as tumblr entries.
1. Hermione was asleep in his bed

_**A/N:** So this is where I'll be posting random short bits of one-shot fic that I've posted on my tumblr. Because they will probably be all over the place, with various ratings, I'll put a little content warning before the sections where it seems necessary. _

_**Chapter content warning:** rough language_

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 **#1 - Hermione was asleep in his bed.**

Hermione was asleep in his bed. In HIS. Ron's. Bloody hell.

He was staring, his throat gone quite dry. His socked feet curled into the rug as he chewed his bottom lip. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

He'd nipped downstairs for a cup of tea, spent twenty minutes or so convincing himself not to go pester Hermione in Ginny's room, stuffed a couple of leftover biscuits into his mouth, brushed his teeth, and come up to his room… only to find…

Well.

The problem was that he could think of no reason that she should be asleep in his bed if she hadn't intended for him to find her. She couldn't have thought there was any chance that he wouldn't. So here he was, wondering if he ought to grab a quilt and kip on the floor, or if she would be expecting him to-

Goddamn it.

He forced himself to stop biting his lip raw, placed his cold tea on his bedside table, and resumed staring down at Hermione.

Her wild hair was half covering her face. Most of her half-bare right leg was sticking out from under the covers, and her lips were slightly parted, as if she had fallen asleep breathing lightly through her mouth.

She shifted, and his heart stopped.

Her movement had managed to accomplish one thing- the quilt that had been pulled up to her shoulders had slipped down, revealing the swell of her chest over the top of her too-thin vest.

"Shit."

His body felt entirely too warm, despite being clad only in pyjama bottoms, bare chest shuddering as Hermione sighed in her sleep. He was surely spinning slightly, or else he'd actually gone mental.

His eyes moved down her body, bits that he couldn't quite imagine buried in his sheets… And then, he felt it. His ears burned. And his eyes darted up to her flushed face.

She was looking up at him, heavy-lidded, but awake.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathed, startled into jumping back several inches.

She swallowed, blinking.

"What are you doing?"

He raised his eyebrows as she innocently waited for his reply.

"Oh, I dunno," he managed, "just trying to figure out what to do about this."

She licked her lips, a small flash of embarrassment crossing her face.

"Couldn't sleep," she explained, softly.

"Didn't seem to be having any trouble to me."

"I'm not, anymore. Not here, at least…"

"Oh."

His heart fluttered without his consent.

"Well," she whispered, "are you going to climb in… or not?"

One corner of his mouth turned up just a bit.

"Reckon I was about ten seconds from making myself comfortable on the floor, actually, before you woke up."

"I didn't mean to steal your bed. I thought…" she trailed off, and he raised an eyebrow, heart pounding.

Alright. She wanted to share. That was becoming too clear to miss, even for him…

He brushed a hand through his hair and gathered all the bits of stray courage that were presently dancing round in the pit of his stomach.

"Alright. Budge over."

As she moved, he caught her smiling brilliantly, turning her head away in a useless attempt to hide it from him. Breaking out in a radiant display of gooseflesh, he flattened himself to his bed, shifting closer, under the quilt, until her warmth was consuming the entire left side of him.

Silent, aside from the sounds of the two of them breathing, he wondered if he could risk a glance in her direction. Taking the risk, at last, he caught her risking the same thing.

They grinned shyly at each other, and he shrugged against his pillow.

"Gonna be your fault when I can't sleep alone anymore."

She pressed her lips together, and he felt her hand slide down his forearm, linking their fingers together.

"Good."


	2. First things she missed were his socks

**#2 - The first things she missed were his socks.**

It was silly, really, but the first things she missed were his socks.

She had asked him, on an obscene number of occasions throughout the summer, to kindly remove his socks from the sofa, the bedroom floor… underneath the kitchen table. At first, she had found it absurd that he could claim to forget to pick them up, every time. But, after a while, she'd started to find something about it almost subconsciously comforting. Many things had changed over the last year, living on the run, hunting Horcruxes… but at least she could count on finding a sock tangled in the bed sheets or wedged between sofa cushions.

Now, unpacking her trunk at Hogwarts, preparing to spend her first night in weeks away from him, she felt a bit hollow, her space perfectly organised, imagining his bare feet propped on the coffee table…

She sighed to herself. She had chosen to come back. She'd known it would be difficult. But she'd also known that she would regret not finishing school, if she declined her invitation from McGonagall to return. She had worried, at first, that he would be upset with her choice. But once she'd finally told him, she'd been relieved to discover that he'd expected the choice she had made, all along. Of course he knew her well enough now to read her mind…

She'd caught him, lingering on the platform, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his robe as she'd watched him from the train window, long past when he would be expecting her to still be able to see him. And then she had cried, quietly, for the first hour of the ride, alone in her compartment.

But though she had instantly felt their parting as a heavy, unmoving weight on her chest, she had only just now experienced the first real sign of what it meant. And it was his bloody stupid socks.

She stretched out on her back, clutching a notepad in her hand and biting the end of a quill. He'd given her Pig, earlier that morning, to take along with her. And now, she was grateful to have the little beast nearby. At least she could write, to distract herself.

 _Ron,_

 _I'm here now, in my dormitory. Nothing much has changed. I think that's probably comforting, but it also feels slightly odd, after being out last year, to come back to it all again._

 _There were five different puddings at the feast tonight. Jealous? One of the new first years was so nervous about the sorting that he threw up on his shoes. Don't laugh! I felt awful for him. I remember that day so well, waiting to be sorted. Don't you? But then it also seems like a lifetime ago, really._

 _I miss you. I really, really, really miss you. Will you come to watch Quidditch trials? I'm sure you'd be welcome, and Harry, too. Though you might have to sign a few autographs. I expect that's terrible news for you…_

 _I had the most ridiculous thought earlier, and I can't believe I'm telling you this. I miss your socks. You're probably having a huge laugh right now at that. And, by now, your socks are probably hanging off the edge of every surface…_

 _It's been nine hours. Please don't burn the flat down._

 _Love,_ _  
_ _Hermione_

* * *

She woke, just past dawn, to the tapping of a tiny owl beak on her window. Pig had returned, and as she slowly sat up in bed, she found herself staring out at an animal that had far too much energy to have been traveling, basically nonstop, all night. She rolled her eyes, sliding out of bed.

"Calm down," she instructed, uselessly, as she opened the window for him to come through.

He zoomed into the room, fluttering his wings with over excitement, as if he literally could not wait to deliver the package he was carrying… further evidenced by his complete lack of self control in waiting for the appropriate time to deliver mail with the rest of the owls, at breakfast.

"Hold still, you menace," she whispered, snatching at Pig until he finally came to a near-rest on the edge of her bed. He impatiently nudged his small parcel with his beak, and Hermione reached for it, recognising Ron's handwriting immediately and feeling the familiar sensation of her stomach jumping pleasurably at the sight of her name scrawled in his messy penmanship.

She sat back down on her bed and opened the package, smiling. She'd been gone less than twenty-four hours. Had she forgotten to pack something important that he'd remembered later and sent along for her?

The creased, brown paper of the package fell open as she untied the twine.

A short note slid toward her.

And a large, crumpled sock fell out after it, dropping neatly into her lap.

She blinked once. And then, she had to cover her mouth to keep from waking her dormmates as she laughed, eyes watering.

 _Hermione,_

 _Harry stayed over last night, and we spent half an hour trying to get the stove going before ordering take away. So the word 'jealous' doesn't begin to describe it. I can only hope you tried every one of those puddings, in my honour._

 _Of course, I'll definitely be there for Quidditch trials. That's a brilliant idea._

 _Give my love to Sir Nicholas and the Fat Lady._

 _Oh, and don't worry. I've emptied my sock drawer onto the bedroom floor._

 _Love,_ _  
_ _Ron_


	3. At first, he felt absolutely helpless

**#3 - At first, he felt absolutely helpless.  
**

At first, he felt absolutely helpless. He had never seen her cry like this before, like it was completely out of her control. He recalled the nights he had been lost in memories of Fred. What had she done for him, exactly? And though he was sure she had said so many words to him, all those times before, the clearest recollection was of her presence. That was all. She had been there, and that had been so much more than enough.

Her own words hadn't come yet. She hadn't told him what was wrong. But did she really need to?

She was sitting on his floor, looking far too small in the darkness. He was on his knees in front of her, wide eyes staring back at her gorgeous face, soaked with tears. He should've understood, that of course she had her own nightmares, too… the ones he had missed as she'd lived them.

Had he somehow diminished the way she had been tortured, inside his own mind? He could share in equal parts Fred's death, Harry's near-death and Hermione's screams, night after night, in his own nightmares, waking in terror and unable to breathe. But he hadn't seen her live those moments, from the depths of that bloody dungeon. He hadn't been there. And he could never fully know what she must feel, to have been cursed the way she was… to have lost hope of living, clinging only to the chance of dying without giving up.

But he did know her. He knew her strength, her fears… afraid she might not be enough. That no matter what she did to prepare, she might not be able to handle it… to save them.

It was useless to tell her it was over, that she had no more reason to be afraid. Because no matter what had come before, one chapter coming to an end, things never worked that way. There wasn't a door you could shut to keep the memories out.

Done was not the same thing as over. Not at all.

He reached out for her, needing to feel her as much as he wondered if she needed to feel him. She clutched his hand, nearly hysterical.

When the world was too big, they had always had each other. And he considered his time spent trying to do the right thing with her, marveling at knowledge gained from Failsafe Ways… when all he'd needed to do was stay.

Stay. And she would be alright.

He'd never needed books or advice to gain her love. She had already given that to him.

He held her hands. He wrapped his arms around her. His shoulder was hers, shirt soaked through from her tears. He closed his eyes as she clung to him, her heartbeat sound against his own chest.

He would let go if she asked him to. Not a second before.

She breathed in ragged intervals, lips against his throat. Her shivering eased as he stroked her back through the thin material of her night shirt.

And the circumference of fear and dreams closed around them, until the only thing he could feel was love, the warmth of her body, the knowledge of her living in his arms. And he knew then, with a certainty that astounded him, that she felt the exact same things for him.


	4. Brushing his teeth in his underwear

_**Chapter content warning:** nudity :) ...but not really sexual. Sorry?_

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 _#_ **4 - He was brushing his teeth in his underwear.  
**

He was brushing his teeth in his underwear. She was sitting on the side of the tub in one of his old, faded shirts, swiping her wand across her bare legs to shave them, back toward him.

She shifted, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He stared at the mess of her hair, piled on top of her head in a haphazard bun, thick curls falling at random to swirl down the back of her neck.

He sucked in a short breath to speak, hindered by his toothbrush. Shaking his head and smiling, he rinsed his mouth and leaned back against the counter.

She placed her wand on the side of the tub, next to her, and lifted a foot, crossing her ankle over her knee and bending to file her toenails, oblivious to him watching her so closely. Not that she would mind.

This was ordinary. But he felt as if he had suddenly been pulled out of the scene and reminded of love potion, poisoning, an ill dream of her gone from his life for good… a locket, an impulsive choice, firewhiskey on Christmas… alone.

But now, he had this, instead.

"Oi," he said, voice scratchy with sleep.

She turned to glance at him, over her shoulder. She waited for him to say more, but he shrugged, smiling at her.

"What?" she asked, laughing.

"Just happy."

Her lips curled gently, and she dropped her foot from her lap, standing and slowly crossing the room, toward him. She smoothed her hair back from her face and stood up on her toes, taking his face between both of her hands and kissing him, softly. He touched her nowhere else, concentrating on the sensation of her lips on his, her warm hands against his cheeks.

She pulled back, blinked in slow motion, and he grinned down at her.

"Sod work. Let's stay home."

"Well," she grinned back at him, "it's Saturday, so that makes sense."

His eyebrows shot up.

"Is it really?"

She laughed, shaking her head.

"Didn't know it was possible for you to lose track of a weekend."

"What the hell are we doing out of bed?"

"Your alarm went off, so I got up. And you followed me."

He sighed happily, leaning away from the counter now.

"Right," he started. "Reckon you're done with the tub?"

"Not quite," and her cheeks flushed the softest of pinks, "but I wouldn't mind company…"

Turning her back on him, she removed her shirt, dropping it to the floor and walking, completely naked, back to the tub.

"My sixteen year old self would hit me right now," he said, stripping off his boxers and following her.

"You can't be jealous of yourself," she grinned, turning up the taps and climbing into the tub.

"Pretty sure he could have managed it," he smirked, climbing in behind her.

But the lack of touching from moments ago had caught up to him, and he reached forward quickly, clutching her tightly around the waist. She let out a surprised squeak as he pulled her against his chest and buried his face in her hair. She wrapped both hands around his forearms, one across her stomach and the other crossing her chest and shoulders.

"Saturday, you say?" he breathed against her neck.

"Yeah," she laughed, "they come once a week, you know."

"Any reason to leave the flat today?" he asked, lifting his head, removing his arm from across her chest and sliding the quill out of her messy bun, releasing her hair to bush around her shoulders and neck.

"None whatsoever."

His left palm flattened to her stomach and she leaned fully back against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. He ducked his head and kissed her ear, watching with delight as her eyes fluttered shut.

Water sloshed as he leaned against the tile wall behind him, holding her, skin to skin. He kissed his way down the side of her neck, and she squeezed his hand.

He recalled a year ago, the first time he'd seen her naked. He remembered, hazily, the first time she'd left the door open, while taking a shower. They'd stopped being worried. They'd stopped second guessing. And it was bloody perfect.

He couldn't put into words this feeling of comfort that left them contentedly wrapped in each other. So he breathed in the smell of her warm skin, slid his hand up her ribs, and let his heart beat solidly between her shoulder blades as she kissed the back of his hand.


	5. Sitting in the sand, trying not to think

**#5 - He was sitting in the sand, trying not to think.**

He was sitting in the sand, trying not to think. The days might appear to pass slower at Shell Cottage. But then again, they seemed to move too fast. He recalled Malfoy Manor almost as a distant nightmare, nearly a week after it had happened… after he'd almost lost her. But yet, he could hardly breathe before night would fall, bringing them another day closer to the next thing they had to do.

He heard her approaching and glanced right, to look at her, as she sat softly next to him.

"Harry alright?" he asked hoarsely.

She looked at him for a long moment, studying.

"Yes, he's fine," she said, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. It was no use, though… the salty breeze whipped it free again.

"Good."

"We don't always have to be about him, you know…"

He glanced sideways at her again, noting the flush of her cheeks, her chapped lips… the sprinkling of freckles decorating her nose.

"You're right," he said, quietly.

She looked up and met his eyes, smiling ever so slightly. But her forehead creased, a sadness flowing through her as she turned to gaze out at the waves again, mesmerisingly sweeping up the beach and back out to sea…

"Harry's got that whole… being famous thing," she said, corner of her mouth turning up as he curiously watched her profile.

"True…" he said, wondering where this could be going. Seconds earlier she'd implied she hadn't wished to talk about Harry. Not now.

"And I've got… you know, _book smarts_."

She said the last two words as if they carried some vile weight, a tempting drink laced with poison.

"That's not a bad thing, you realise."

She glanced at him again, a knowing look as he shrugged.

"It's not," he added, feeling the need to be sure she understood him.

"I know," she said, simply, and there was that sadness again. "Ron, what do you want?"

Dazed, he shook his head slowly, hardly understanding the question.

"I've got you and Harry," he replied, smiling. It was more than enough to want.

"But…" she encouraged, wanting more.

"I may have been a bit… shitty, before I left. I do know what I was like. But it wasn't me. Not really. When I came back-"

"-and destroyed the locket-" she added, and he had sensed, for weeks, her gently prodding him to tell her everything. He wasn't quite ready for that though. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. Soon.

"Right," he grinned, sliding a foot absently through the sand. "But before that, really. When I knew I'd be able to find you, that was enough, you know?"

"Ron…" she chewed her lip, almost nervous, "do you know?"

"What?"

His heart beat suddenly faster, though he couldn't explain why.

"I see the way you are, and for some reason, you think you aren't as important or special or…" She shrugged, and he sniffed.

"That's alright," he said, glancing down at her hand, fingers swirling through the sand between them. "I don't need to be anything. I'm happy. Well, that's not the right word, is it? We're in the middle of a damn war. But… I'm where I'm supposed to be now. I used to… I dunno, need to be best at something, yeah? But that seems… not very important to me anymore."

"Ron…" she tried again, unable to meet his eyes. "You _need_ to know… I think you're… wonderful."

He stared at her profile, half holding his breath. Her words kept striking him, not sharp, but perfect. Resonating. Hermione… his best friend, save Harry. Brilliant, clever, unbelievable… and she thought…

"You…" he managed to breathe, heart caught somewhere halfway up his throat. He took a deep inhale and smiled to himself, a new feeling growing.

She looked his way, finally, and gave him the tiniest smile, a mixture of reassurance and embarrassment that he had never seen cross her features before.

"You're best at a lot of things," she added, at a notch above a whisper.

"Like what?" he heard himself ask, through the thudding of his heart.

"For me…" she began, but she stopped short, eyes widening before she left it.

For her? Could she mean what he thought she might?

His lips parted, and he was overwhelmed.

He didn't see himself as brilliant. Nothing close to her. And he wasn't bloody famous, that much was certain. But… was it possible that he was exactly what she wanted? Somehow it felt like the truth, as tendrils of her wild hair tangled across her reddened cheeks.

If that could be true, if she'd meant it the way he could tell himself he had heard it…

Then he was hers, not just because he'd wanted to be so badly that he'd made it true. He was because she _wanted_ him to be.

And that was far, far greater than anything else he could have ever dreamt to achieve. Sod fame. Sod being the best for anyone else.

She _chose_ him. He'd hardly realised what it would really mean to hear it.

"Me too," he added, unsure if she could understand what he meant.

But as she took in a tiny, sharp breath, eyes watering as she leaned against him, her head coming to rest with a sigh atop his shoulder, he thought that maybe, possibly, she _did_ know…

Exactly.


	6. I don't know

**#6 - I don't know.**

There were too many words. There was not enough to say.

He abstractly wondered how many thoughts he had had, in his lifetime, compared to how many he had chosen to speak aloud. It felt somehow desperate, knowing he would never know. There existed a jumbled pile of things that might help explain his life, the intricacies hidden in depths of forgotten memories, faded moments, ignored emotions.

How well did she know? How much more could he have shown her if he had said all those things that came to mind, the good and the bad, a twisted web of insecurity, loyalty, love…

Of course he would be here, trapped in thought as he waited to be released.

There were the things he knew, with confidence. There were the lies he told to survive. And there were the ones he used to fool himself… the ones _he_ had used, to ruin everything.

Voldemort. A cold name on the tip of his tongue, a pride flowing in a deeper, more personal hatred now.

He could say his name now. Sod it all.

But tonight, something different held him back. He wasn't afraid. But _they_ were, the ones Voldemort used and played like pawns. He could call them, when he needed them. But what about when he needed something else? Some _one_ else…

The answer was clear… a locket, a scar…

Fear saved the lives of the people he kept close. Stand up, and-

"Fucking coward's not saying a word," the snatcher scowled, knife tip grazing Ron's left ear.

She lived with knowledge, a confidence he secretly envied. But she'd never needed him for that. He was something else, then. And could it be that the things he didn't know were as important now as the ones he did?

More so.

He didn't know if they could win this. He didn't know how she felt about him- not exactly. He didn't know if he'd ever find them again…

He didn't know why he kept quiet when he could scream all the words in the world to make her understand. And he didn't even mind the ones that coloured him in unsavoury light. He'd show her everything, somehow.

He didn't know how.

He didn't know how, and it kept him strong.

He could fight unknown. But he couldn't fight a certainty, a pre-determined life that bloody _You-Know-Effing-Who_ seemed to think was his to make.

He'd _subconsciously_ believed in certainty for too damn long.

It had cost him Harry. It had cost him her.

"He's useless," another snatcher growled, tightening his grip on Ron's bicep.

"What's your _business_ out 'ere?"

Ron's heavy-lidded eyes met a pair of dark grays, inches away, the man's clothes reeking of piss and alcohol. And he understood how he could change. How he could fight.

"I don't know," he said, and with a scoff, the snatcher released him to fall to the ground, directing a dirty boot toward his ribs.

"Useless," he spat, and they turned away, swaying as they clumsily vanished through the tree line beyond, leaving Ron to mend a small gash at the tip of his ear… two missing fingernails.


	7. She had so many things to do

**#7 - She had so many things to do.**

She had so many things to do. At school, her list had included an equal spread of texts to read, homework to complete, and Harry's life to save. Out here, with only the cold wind, canvas walls, and a deafening silence, she had much more… and so much less.

At first, the silence had come as icy fingers resting gently on her shoulders. Now, they wrapped round her throat, choking her.

She'd noticed in an unexpected way. She'd cried herself to sleep, a sort of soft, aching sobbing that she couldn't be bothered if Harry could hear. And then, she'd woken, at dawn, with nothing. No fear, no drive to succeed for herself. Only the mechanical ways of research, logical patterns of abstracted thought, and memorised motions of her hands on a quill pressed to parchment.

At first, recognising her mind, not as her own, but as something else, she had reached for fear… If she could find it, then she was still alive. But, deep down, she was much too logical for that. And it was too late.

For a while, she'd fall asleep hoping she could wake up angry. He deserved it, even if he wasn't there to see it. But maybe that was it- the real problem. She couldn't _be_ , because he was gone.

When had he become… so much a part of her?

She found that it didn't hurt to accept it. And she wondered if, much later on, she would really grieve, knowing she had lost something so much more important, more than she'd realised.

She had known she'd loved him. But missing him so much that she couldn't even dream… this had been the true test, and the one she had failed so miserably that she could hardly comprehend it.

She had never failed before. Her flawless record had been marred with an all-consuming blackness. Blankness.

Godric's Hollow came and went. And instead of the nightmares she'd have expected, after what they had seen, she finally felt a ghost of anger, for the first time in weeks. They'd gone to see the grave of Harry's parents, an incredibly important, personal thing for Harry to do. And _he_ hadn't been there. Because he'd left them.

Hot tears burned at the corners of her eyes. When she was left alone, she wasn't supposed to be truly by herself. She was supposed to have him. His eyes and his soft voice and his… everything.

She hadn't realised, before, how the sight of his shaggy, sleeping head, the roughness of his ginger stubble, his toes sticking out from the bottom of too-short blankets, had comforted her. Waking from recurrent nightmares, she would look to him and find him safe, breathing. Now, she had no nightmares. No dreams at all. And she longed more for their return than she had ever longed to erase them, before.

Was there any way he could come back? She hardly allowed herself room to hope, casting him as far from her mind as she could, focusing instead on living a sort of half-life, with no more vibrance or vivid colour. She lived in black and white and gray… surrounded by towering, barren trees, chills to her bones.

Nights turned to days… turned to nights. She'd lost count of how long it had been, another thing she never thought she could do. With a lump lodged permanently in her throat, she held her breath, no longer willing to let Harry hear her. Harry was already too broken himself, without _him_.

She squinted, silent tears rolling desperately down her cheeks, and then, darkness.

When she woke, it was to the sound of shuffling boots, Harry's voice, as if speaking to someone else. Someone…

She opened her eyes and turned toward…

Him. He was standing there, alive. And if she hadn't known she wasn't capable of such things, anymore, she'd have assumed she must be dreaming. But, instead, she moved, needing to be sure, heart pounding in a strange, recently unfamiliar way.

What was this? Her life was crashing. The void that had consumed her, the moment he had left, was receding.

And suddenly, she felt _everything_.

Suddenly, she was filled with rage, disbelief, the deepest hurt she had ever experienced, love…

Suddenly, she was alive again.


	8. 2nd September 2019

_**A/N:**_ _I don't know where this came from! Suddenly, I was writing them post-kids, which I almost never do._ _mypatronusisacupcake_ _/ jesrod82 sketched a pretty awesome arse, and then I promised to write "handful of arse" into another story I was working on… but then it appeared over here, too…_

 _Warnings include_ _ **sexual conversation**_ _,_ _ **swearing**_ _,_ _and_ _ **naked!Ron**_ _…_

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 **#8 - 2nd September 2019**

"There are no kids in our house."

Hermione stretched out along the bed and opened an eye, staring up at Ron, where he stood a few feet away, in only his pants.

"What?" she asked, scratchily, her first word of the day.

"It's completely quiet. And… we can walk around starkers."

"That's the first thing you want to do with our freedom?" she rasped back, yawning.

He reached down and quickly removed his pants, sliding them just to his ankles before stepping a foot out and kicking them away from him. Turning to gaze down at her, he raised an eyebrow, and she burst out laughing.

"You can even go to the kitchen, just like that, and bring me back a glass of juice…" she suggested, pursing her lips up at him before the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile.

"I could walk around the bloody garden!" he added, enthusiastically.

She wrinkled her nose up at him.

"Don't get carried away. Our adult neighbours aren't away at Hogwarts…"

He grinned at her, running a hand over his scruffy face, sleep tousled hair standing up at humorous angles.

"You suppose Hugo's got into Gryffindor?"

"If he hasn't, he'll be Ravenclaw," she said with certainty. "I'd bet ten galleons on it."

"Reckon George is still taking wagers?"

She laughed and shook her head.

"Rosie'll owl the second she's awake, to tell us what house he's in," Ron said.

"So, as late as she can possibly get away with? Thanks for passing that down to her!"

"Oi, says the witch still in bed at half-nine!" He smirked at her. "I'm being productive."

"How?" she asked, sceptically.

"I've already gotten up and taken my clothes off! I'm planning the rest of my day, thank you."

"You're confusing productive with going slightly mad."

She sat up and arched her back, getting a good stretch in as Ron watched, his suddenly glazed eyes dropping to her breasts as they pressed against the front of the shirt she was wearing, an old, faded one of his.

"Have I told you you've got fucking amazing tits?"

"Oh, no," she teased, kicking the sheets off her legs. "In the millions of times you've seen me naked, you've never bothered to mention it."

"Huh."

She crawled to the side of the bed and sat up on her knees, pressing her face to his naked chest and running her fingernails up his back. He reached down and grasped two handfuls of her arse.

"But surely I've mentioned your incredible arse."

"No, never."

"Blimey."

He released her to move back up and slide his hands under the elastic of her knickers, molding over warm, bare flesh.

"How many times d'you think we've had sex?" he asked, as she flattened her palms to his back, lifting her face so her chin rested in the centre of his chest, staring up at him. "I mean, if you had to guess an actual, reasonable number."

"Oh, God. I don't know…"

She stretched up further on her knees and rubbed her cheek against his stubble as she considered his question. Doing quick calculations, she could multiply twenty-one years of being together by the days in a year, subtracting time for her final year at Hogwarts, attempting to factor in chunks of time when the kids were small, but recalling stretches of time at their first flat when they wouldn't leave the bed all day-

"Seven thousand?"

"Shit, that's a lot."

His hands slid out of her knickers and up under the back of her shirt.

"Oh, would you rather slow down-"

"You're funny."

She grinned as he bunched her shirt up her sides, until she let go of him and lifted her arms into the air, allowing him to remove the shirt altogether and toss it carelessly to the floor.

"Later," he said in a low voice, as he watched her scowl at the mess of clothes he was making on their bedroom floor, "we can clean the house together… _naked_."


	9. The water's surface broke

_**A/N:** A little Ron  & Harry friendship drabble, mid-DH._

* * *

The water's surface broke.

Ripping cold tore through him from his limbs to his heart, as he sank below, holding his breath. He'd spared no time to think, now suddenly encompassed by frozen darkness as he fought his way down.

How could Harry have done it? That bleeding locket.

What had possessed him- no, that wasn't correct. How had he been so careless? To jump in with the locket round his neck…

Metres down seemed to stretch indefinitely, and the bubbling of Ron's strangled exhales cleared away long enough to afford him a hazy view of ruby red, polished silver… glinting.

He could finally make out Harry's dark, closing eyes, as the weight of his own robes fought against his efforts to reach… But he hadn't had time to remove his clothing. His chest tightened, muscles going rigid against unbelievable cold as he extended his arms, dragging underneath Harry's, finding the locket's chain struggling with incredible force to restrict Harry's ability to breathe or resurface.

Wand clutched, aiming and focusing with all his might, he sliced the chain at the back of Harry's neck, releasing him from bondage. He held the dead weight of his best mate, the man he'd left. The one who ought to hate him, never forgive him, for what he had done.

Yet nothing mattered but the strength to pull Harry free, away from danger and the icy clutches of a meaningless death.

Stretching one long, lanky arm, his skeletal fingers wrapped round the hilt of the sword of Gryffindor, a final burst of air from his lungs as he pushed off the bottom, squeezing Harry to his chest and the sword to Harry's.

The water's newly quiet surface broke again - a shaggy, ginger head emerging; an unshaven, freckled face; jet black hair and a second skull lolling against a heaving chest. Clattering the sword to the frozen edge of the pool, he forced his elbow painfully into thick ice, dragging Harry up with the sword, scrambling in a soaked pile of jumpers, robes, and twisted denim.

Yanking his own body free, he clambered to his feet, watching with glimmering eyes as Harry turned and began to cough, reaching round for his glasses.

Every part of his body was shivering as shock, relief, and the freezing temperature outside made fierce attempts to still his blood, pausing the ability of his frozen lungs to pull in air… puffs of smoke as he desperately panted into the night… the broken chain with the locket still attached dangling from his hand.

And he could see the light in Harry's eyes. Recognition. Damned if it wasn't something more. If he wasn't glad-

Sod it. Harry was alive. Nothing else mattered.

Except the nagging annoyance that grew again as he flashed through the surely inevitable path that would have led his best mate to certain doom, to a watery tomb in stark isolation, a fucking locket choking him to death as the surface of the water stood motionless.

And he shuddered out a breath, shaking his head.

"Are - you - mental?"


	10. Sleep

_**A/N:** Back on Hermione's birthday, this year, I started a story I had planned to post later that day. But it quickly turned into something much longer than originally intended, and I wasn't able to get it online in time. So, at the very last second, at the end of the day, I drabbled this short bit, which takes place on Hermione's 19th birthday, and posted it on Tumblr. Just now getting around to uploading here!_

* * *

She wanted to sleep all night. She had done it, for a bit, in his arms. But books and revisions and exams had taken her away from him. And now she was here, without him.

Hogwarts felt close to the same, in ways that surprisingly upset her. And she'd shut her eyes and try to imagine he was there, with Harry, across the tower from her. But he wasn't. And whether it was a nightmare or something else that woke her, she'd begun to grow accustomed to the feeling of exhaustion never quite escaping, living in her bones.

Tonight, her window was open, a feathering breeze tickling her hair against her cheek, the side of her neck. In minutes, she'd be nineteen. The number sounded so foreign, distant. It had once seemed quite adult, to be nineteen. And though she'd lost a good deal of what she imagined others might call innocence, in her years-long quest with Ron and Harry, she felt quite small and, maybe, exactly her own young age, honestly.

Maybe nineteen wasn't as old as she'd thought.

She shivered, and she had just considered getting out of bed and closing the window when a gust came through, shocking her as she clutched her quilt to her chest. And as she stared, a dark figure on a broom whizzed by… then again, in the opposite direction.

Gasping, she reached for her wand and slid out of bed, approaching.

The figure passed by again, only this time, she caught the glint of a shaggy copper head and nearly dropped her wand as she lunged for the window.

He turned quickly, spotting her, and with a grin of relief, he zoomed forward and clattered a bit too noisily into her dorm room.

"Ron?!" she questioned frantically, heart pounding furiously even as her body melted at the more-than-welcome sight of him.

His face fell slightly as he dismounted and balanced his broom against the wall.

"You haven't been sleeping, have you." He sniffed and began to remove his gloves. "Ginny told me she reckoned you weren't."

"Hello to you, too…" she breathed, eyes wide.

He sighed, smile returning.

"I haven't, either," he added, tossing his gloves on her bedside table and stepping closer. "Bloody hell, I love you."

"You came here just to see if I've been sleeping?!"

"Well. It's your birthday. I thought… maybe I could help?"

He toed off his boots, but paused, raising an eyebrow.

"Is it ok I'm here?" he asked at a suddenly-nervous whisper.

"Ok?!" she squeaked. In a rush, she'd caught up to the world around her, her dormmates possibly waking to the sight of Ron standing in the middle of her room, against all sorts of rules… But at the same time, she was becoming acutely aware of the sheer miraculous fact of his presence. Sod why or how. "Get in here," she instructed, pulling back her bed curtains as relief washed down his face.

They crawled in together, and she helped him remove his jeans. And then they were there, lying on her bed in the dark, a sense of peace covering her like the warmest blanket. She blinked at him. And then the tears came, flinging her arms around him and burying her face against his neck as he held her, his nose in her hair and legs twining together.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For risking you getting in trouble?" he muttered into her curls.

"No," she sniffed, and she couldn't explain it, the need to feel alive through his presence. But he had been making her feel that way for longer than she could admit.

She breathed the earthy scent of his skin, slid her hands up under the back of his shirt, and closed her eyes.

"For not giving up," she said, because it suddenly felt like the words that made the most sense. They'd survived a war. And they'd survived each other, years of bickering and misunderstandings. And worse, that feeling of deepest loss, of aching for a need that could never be fulfilled. Not without relief. And he was hers.

They would sleep tonight.


	11. She wasn't going to let go of him

**#11 - She wasn't going to let go of him.**

She wasn't going to let go of him. Not after everything. Never again, irrationally.

The words they needed didn't seem so important now, knowing they had survived, he had kissed her back, and he didn't want her to go.

With her clinging to his jumper, he awkwardly limped them up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. She didn't question his direction, only knowing she would follow, anywhere. And he for her.

"He's gone," Ron muttered, as they pushed through the half-open door to the empty seventh year room, late morning light glinting through two levels of diamond-paned windows, all around, making them squint.

And she wasn't sure if his words had been for Harry… or his brother Fred.

She forcibly tried to hold back tears that she silently cursed when they finally fell… when he saw. His arm tightened around her, tugging her against his chest and dropping his face to the top of her head. If he wanted to speak, now was the time he might do it. And while she craved his voice and his words, she wanted nothing more now than his comforting presence. And when he pulled away again, linking their hands and licking his lips, she felt her breath catch in her throat… her eyes dart toward his narrow bed…

"Do you want to stay?" he asked tentatively, and she found his eyes, shining in the light from the windows.

She nodded, but more specific questions formed on the tip of her tongue. Where, exactly, did he want her to stay?

But then, he didn't give her enough time to be afraid. Ducking his head in all his bravery, he wrapped a hand round the back of her neck and kissed her gently on the lips. Her knees turned to jelly as she gripped his jumper in two trembling fists.

When he pulled back, maybe a bit too soon, she found it already hard to catch her shivering breath.

A light blush coloured his cheeks as he smiled.

"Reckon no one's used my bed," he said scratchily, glancing over at the perfectly made, puzzlingly narrow thing, curtains tucked back. Had it always been so small? Or was it just now, as she was faced with joining him behind those curtains, that it really appeared so?

"How'd you ever fit in that tiny thing?" she asked at a near-whisper.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

"Don't think it'll work?"

"What?" she puzzled.

"You and me."

"Oh," she blushed, questions fully answered. She smiled and clutched his hand tighter. "It'll be fine. If you want me here, then I'm not letting go of you."

"'Course I want you."

She found it impossible to swallow the lump forming in her throat, eyes prickling as his own glistened brilliantly.

Removing her wand from her pocket, she swished it about the room, closing the long, hanging curtains over the windows. And, tugging him forward, she toed off her shoes by his bed, catching him staring as she untucked his sheets and quilted blanket with her free hand.

"What took us so long?" he asked in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

She stared up at him, tears silently falling as she shook her head.

He let go of her hand to hold her face in both of his hands. He pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. And she reached up to hold his wrists, feeling so heavy on her feet that she feared she might collapse.

They separated only long enough to remove their jeans and dirty jumpers, climbing into bed and reaching for each other again, heads together on his pillow, so close to the edges that they risked falling off. But he held her closer and they were suddenly tangled together, his shaking arm tugging the sheets and quilt up over them.

Exhausted, she stared back into the eyes of the person she wanted to spend her life with, the only one she'd ever loved the way she loved him. God, if only he could know, could understand what he meant to her, before he fell asleep. Somehow.

But then his hand was in her hair, the words vanished between them, and he sighed, her fingers sliding under his shirt, up his spine.

He kissed the tip of her nose. She remembered the way she had mourned when he'd left them… and the clever way he'd understood her, time after time, in his own words… the ones she somehow knew he'd say to her. Soon.

And the fact that, had she wanted to, she could have easily widened his bed to make this easier… But she hadn't. And maybe he knew it as he smiled so softly across at her.

And at least she could be suddenly certain that he knew she would never leave him. And he, she marveled, would never leave her.


	12. Okay

_**A/N:** Fic Friday, yeah! I posted this over on Tumblr a while ago and never got around to posting here. I think my general idea, when I wrote this, was that Ron might have been trying to use actual logic and strategical skillz to locate Harry & Hermione after he left them. I thought it might be kind of ironic to have him think of- wait, that was about to be a spoiler, for a 600 word short fic, so... Yeah. Okay, bye!_

* * *

 **#12 - Okay**

Okay.

So, he probably should have said something before he stormed out. He realised that. But it didn't make it seem easier now than it had back then.

When he'd been possessed. Whatever.

He wished he'd taken more time to understand what Ginny'd gone through with the diary. Maybe he'd have been stronger, seen the signs, shaken the feelings that crept-

It didn't really matter.

The truth was that now, alone, he'd have rather been brave and secured his crushing disappointment than live knowing he'd left her thinking he didn't care. That's what he'd done, wasn't it? If he'd just told her he loved her, maybe her pity would have been enough to make him feel he'd at least got over the wall that had been looming between them for… God, how long now?

In a way, he never really believed he'd _never_ see them again. He could find it in himself to punch the walls and clench fists in his own too-long hair when he was at his lowest, voices from his _own_ heart - not You-Know-Who's - berating his selfishness… his shortcomings. Telling him he'd lost them. But when he got his head on straight, focused, he knew they couldn't hide forever. And he knew her… didn't he? He knew them _both_. He knew her mind, where she might take them next.

The maps had started a fight in him, a resolution. He'd listened to her enough, her soft timbre, floating over words… So many words she thought he hadn't heard. Had he been so good at fooling her that he had fooled himself as well?

Hardly.

He recalled their route, to be unpredictable. He reckoned he was maybe the only one who _could_ predict her unpredictability. He smiled at that, calloused index finger running down the western coast of England, eyes glowing by dimly flickering candlelight.

"Where are you?" he whispered, not with sadness, but with determination.

Squinting, a bit of something sparked in memory, and he froze.

"…holiday in Gloucester."

She'd told him, in one of their moments together… soft voices meant only for each other. He closed his eyes, wondering how he'd missed everything, how he could have brushed away her less-than-subtle clues so carelessly. She'd mentioned the holiday, he'd suspected, as a way to clear any misunderstandings about whether or not she'd visited Viktor Krum that bloody summer.

It was as if they were finally dismissing those childish tactics they had both been guilty of using to make a complicated mess of everything. Scoffing, feigning disinterest, leaving things unsaid and watching for signs of jealousy. He'd never quite known for sure how much she'd done it intentionally. But he knew _then_ , as she'd gently smiled at him and told him memories from her past, her family… that it wasn't just because she missed her parents.

More than that, they'd both been living the same lie, and he could have straightened it out so easily.

Maybe he had, in some ways. Maybe his low voice and lingering eyes had helped. Maybe she understood him.

Harry would forgive him. But his fear was in breaking her one too many times. She had to forgive him, too.

Eyes darting across villages and roads, a river's cutting path through a nearby forest made him pause yet again, lightening with familiarity. Tomorrow was Christmas. He'd try it then. He had to start somewhere.

And so, he'd start by recalling her gentle voice as she'd sat so close to him, his mind wandering as she'd absently run her fingers down the loosened bandage over his healing arm…

"Mum hated camping in general. I think she only agreed because Dad wanted to… But then, she always seemed to like the Forest of Dean. We should go sometime. It's quite nice… Peaceful."

"Peaceful sounds brilliant."

"Yeah… It does."


	13. Careful

_**A/N:** So, I wrote this little drabble on Tumblr back on 20 July 2016. For whatever reason, I never posted it over here (oops!), so here it is, a drabble small enough to be the author's note before a complicated fic :) Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **#13 - Careful**

If there was one thing he knew, right now, that he wasn't supposed to do, it was to get too close.

Bill had figured things out a bit better than he'd have liked, and the words between them, though brief, had frustrated him more than he had been already.

 _Tell her._

Bullshit.

He'd come too close, the next day, at the wedding, after dancing with her, holding her hands… He could have done it. For the first time in his life, he reckoned it would have been possible to open his mouth and say the words to explain to her how he felt.

But hell had broken open, and then they were here, at Grimmauld Place, and he was hunched on the sofa with his head in his hands, and she was reassuring him about his family… and he wanted to kiss her. He settled for a gripping hug instead, fist clenched too tight in the back of her jumper to be considered strictly friendly. But he stopped analysing for long enough to do it and let her go.

It could be more. It could be, and he'd be free of wondering, wandering, uncertainty. But _could_ he do it? If he had that, _her_ \- if he didn't wake nights thinking of the future, if the future was only now and didn't need to wait for later… Could he keep going?

She gave him glances that made his heart beat faster, tiny touches when no words could be found, a knitted brow when his worries became her own. The world was small, really, because it was just the three of them. And an increasing fraction of that _them_ was becoming a glowing beacon, a light in the darkest of times.

If the light was too bright… He knew the truth, and he fought it every day. Bill was wrong. Even a part of his own heart was wrong.

If she loved him - God, if he could be so lucky - he had to keep himself from knowing it, from hearing actual words spoken back when shadows surrounded them. Someday, when the world was large again, when the sun shined overhead and he could allow himself to notice…

But now, he bit his tongue. He held his breath. He smiled back at her, but he forced himself to look away. Toward the present. Putting the future behind him. Never letting go completely. Careful.


End file.
